


One Summer

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Beaches, Books, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Holidays, M/M, Multi, Romance, Skinny Dipping, navel gazing, schmangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 14:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7226854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musketeers modern AU based loosely around the movie, Dan In Real Life.  Fallen by the wayside, estranged from friends and family for the last five years, Athos agrees to meet up in a place that was once very special to him.  Can he push aside the past and find somewhere new to begin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As Athos pulled into the parking space, fat drops of rain began to spatter on the windscreen. He counted them, watching them glide in murky trails down the glass, and once they began to number in hundreds rather than tens he got out of the car, stretching cramped muscles and luxuriating in the scent of wet foliage and meadow flowers. Here he would always be a child.

From outside, the village shop was unchanged, but inside it had been organised into neat sections -- a cafe, a bookshop, plus a dozen shelves packed with random holiday paraphernalia. The serving area was still the same though and Athos looked down at the tubs of luscious sounding ice creams, surprising himself by choosing to welcome the past rather than reject it.

“Apple crumble,” he said to the lady behind the counter. “No, make that a rhubarb and ginger please.”

“Why not have both,” said the woman.

It wasn’t a question, he realised as she heaped two huge scoops of each flavour into a biscuit cone. 

“Do you have any flakes?” he asked, thinking once again of the old days and a swirl of Mr Whippy coated in hundreds and thousands then topped off with a stick of rough milk chocolate. This had been his daily holiday treat.

“Of course,” she replied, turning artisan luxury into an old fashioned ninety nine, complete with sprinkles, and then handing it over. “That'll be four pounds twenty, my dear.”

Every morning they had been given fifty pence each to spend in here. His brother Tommy would choose little plastic toys--he loved to waste his money on tat--but Athos would always buy the smallest ice cream and then pick a second hand book from the box. 

Handing over a five pound note, Athos pocketed his change and headed on instinct for the door that led to the terrace, reserved for the café customers. The rain was still falling, but the oddly shaped patio was sheltered from the weather and Athos sat astride the wide low wall and stared out to sea.

He shouldn’t have come. He wasn’t ready for people.

“It’s nice here,” said a person, disturbing him from his thoughts. “And this honey pistachio is the best. You a local?”

Athos turned his head slowly in the direction of the voice. The intruder was sitting beside him, legs dangling over the wall, a beatific grin on his face as he licked at a triple scoop ice cream. He considered walking away, but that would be too rude, even for him.

Instead he shook his head. “I’m here with family,” he said. “We’re staying at my aunt’s house.”

“Me too,” said the man, his grin turning even wider if that were possible. “Well, sort of. I’m renting a cottage with friends. I’ve never done a holiday like this before. I’m a hotel kind of guy. I don’t really fit into chocolate box villages.”

Looking at him it was easy to see why. The man was big, black and handsome, dressed in designer clothes and--Athos peered around over the side wall into the car park--driving a Mercedes sports car by the look of things. This place was slow paced and all about afternoon teas and ploughman’s lunches.

“You may get bored,” he warned. “I hope you’ve brought a dozen books to keep you occupied.”

“I have,” said the stranger, his eyes then widening in annoyance. “Damn! I bought a stack of new ones and left them at home. I was in a hurry to get here and beat the bad weather.”

At his words the sun decided to reappear from behind the clouds, and the resulting warmth brought with it sadness rather than the usual glow of contentment. Athos wasn’t ready to face life alone.

“I’m Porthos,” said the man, nibbling at the edge of his cone. “You need to eat yours before it melts.”

Athos did as he was told and they sat together in a silence that was shockingly easy. “They sell books inside,” he said, glancing sideways at his companion once both ice creams were finished. “Secondhand novels are nicer I always think.”

“Preloved,” said Porthos with a smile. He reached out and ran his thumb across Athos' lips. “Can’t have you arriving at your aunt’s place all covered in chocolate,” he said as he wiped him clean. “Let's have a look at these books then.”

The inside of the shop was dark in contrast and Athos pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. “This way,” he said leading Porthos to a corner that was lined with shelves. “There was just a couple of boxes when I used to come here as a child,” he said, lost in nostalgia. “I didn’t care what I bought as long as it had words in it. One day I came back with a Haynes motoring manual for a Ford Cortina. My mum and dad laughed at me so much.”

Those were happy times. The four of them staying here with Aunt Harriet, Uncle Robert and Bryony. Happy times indeed. Athos looked through the shelves, picking out his favourite novels and piling them up in two neat columns.

“Are you buying all those?” asked Porthos in amazement.

Athos blushed. “No,” he said. “I already have copies of them. I have no idea why I even did that.” He did though. They were his friends. The ones he could still rely on to make him smile, or help him cry when he needed it.

Porthos looked through the titles. “I’ve read a lot of these. You’ve got good taste.” He picked out one. “I’ve been meaning to try Isherwood for years. Thanks for the reminder.”

“You should buy this too,” said Athos, handing him a second with a grin. “It’s all about the local folklore and haunted houses of the area.”

“I will. Nothing like some creepy stories at bedtime.” Porthos beamed at him. “Can I get you a coffee before we go? The weather’s still lovely. It'd be a shame to miss out on it.”

“That would be nice,” said Athos softly and meant it for the first time in years. 

Rather than bother with a tray, they each carried a cup outside, Porthos stopping off to collect a dozen packets of brown sugar on the way. Sitting at a table this time, Athos watched as he tipped vast amounts of demerara crystals into his creamy coffee then stirred it with a finger, having forgotten to bring a spoon. He licked it clean and laughed at the expression on Athos' face. “I’m guessing you’re a neat freak.”

Athos thought about his own untidy house and shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve just never met anyone as visceral as you.”

The man was as giant in spirit as he was in physique and Athos felt safe with him.

“Visceral,” chuckled Porthos. “I like that. Makes a change from uncouth.”

“Is anyone ever couth?” said Athos with a half smile. “I’ve often wondered.”

“Hope not. It sounds well boring to me,” replied Porthos, opening up the map at the front of his newest purchase. “Where are we then?”

“Here,” said Athos, pointing out the location of the shop. “There are some fascinating caves this way,” he added moving his finger a couple of inches along the coast line. They go so far back into the cliffs that it’s safe even at the highest of tides. There are rumours about hidden passages inside which go all the way up to the village. They were used by the wreckers in the past.”

“I’ve heard of them,” said Porthos. “A bad bunch from what I remember.”

“I suppose so, but they were only doing what they had to to survive,” said Athos. Survival was a curse. “There are a few ruined castles and hill forts around here too. Plenty to see if history's your thing.”

“I’m like you,” said Porthos. “Reading’s my thing. I expect they’ll all find me a bit boring.” He sounded apprehensive for the first time today. “I’m a publicist, always jetting off somewhere outlandish. I think most of my mates reckon I live in nightclubs surrounded by celebrities.” He laughed. “I suppose I do, but that’s work. Doesn't mean that's me.” He looked at Athos in surprise. “I have no idea why I’m telling you all this. Sorry.”

Athos smiled again -- another miracle. “I have the kind of face people usually run a mile from. It makes a welcome change.”

“Tell me about you,” said Porthos.

I’m alone; I’m lonely and I’m sad. Athos breathed in and out slowly. “I’m a freelance proofreader,” he said, looking at his watch and getting up. “I must make a move. I’m hours late already.” How had so much time flown away from him? Usually every minute was at least an hour in length.

Porthos stood up with him. “Don’t go,” he said. “Not without telling me your name at least.”

“Olivier,” said Athos and he had no idea why he'd reverted to this. The brush with childhood perhaps. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Porthos. Thank you for the coffee.”

They clasped hands in a shake which turned into a hug that didn't want to end.

“Olivier is a nice name,” said Porthos. “It suits you.” 

His breath was sweet against Athos' cheek. His words, his touch, his warmth, everything about him affected Athos immensely. If only he could stop the passage of time so that they could stay here, like this, forever.

If only.

Only he could be this impetuous twice in his life. No, once was enough. Once had broken him for good. “Goodbye, Porthos,” he said as he walked away.

 

\---

 

Bracing himself for the onslaught, Athos stared again at the build up of droplets on his windscreen, mentally joining the dots into an abstract image of misery. The rain had restarted, matching his mood, and he was being cowardly, using the downpour as an excuse to delay the inevitable.

If only Mum and Dad were here.

Yet more if onlys. They were a hard habit to break. Athos sighed and got out of the car, walking around to the boot to collect his suitcase, which looked brand new but was at least six years old, bought for a holiday that he’d never got the chance to go on.

“Athos,” came his brother’s voice, sounding as happy go lucky as he had been when he was young. “Good to see you, bruv.”

“Tommy,” said Athos, accepting a brief hug. He looked around, noticing for the first time that there were too many cars in the driveway. “I thought it was supposed to be just you and me.” Talking, reconnecting, getting to know each other again. Working through the pain.

“Man, you know how it is,” said this younger, prettier version of himself with an angelic smile and mischievous eyes -- Puck in all but name.

Athos tried hard not to hate him. A thin scab barely covered old wounds. “No, actually I don't. How is it?” he asked coldly.

“Word gets around.” Tommy took a joint from his shirt pocket and lit up. “Everyone wanted to be here. Jesus, Athos. No one's actually seen you since- well for years. We all miss you.” He paused. “I miss you.”

“There’s not much to miss,” said Athos, picking up his suitcase and heading for the door. He may as well get this over with.

Hilltop Cottage was still a rambling old place with spectacular views out to sea, but gone was the worn Axminster carpet that competed with floral walls and chintz curtains, all of them vying against one another for attention. Now the interior was sleekly designed with putty coloured paint and slate floors, easy to keep clean and survive stray sparks from the wood burner. It was a typical upmarket holiday home.

A little more of Athos’ heart snapped off and crumbled to dust as he pictured the old piano covered in photo frames, his mother and aunt playing duets then encouraging him to have a go.

“Harriet’s moved to Sydney to live with Bryony and her partner Janice,” explained Tommy. “You should visit them. D’Artagnan and I go at least once a year.”

If not quite an accusation, it was at least a telling off and Athos cringed from it.

“We're taking Constance with us next time we go,” his brother continued. “She’s dying to do Gay Pride down under.”

“Who’s Constance?” said Athos, dreading the idea of meeting someone new. Old faces were hard enough to cope with.

“I am,” said a northern accent. “And you’re the elusive Athos.”

She was attractive, looked a similar age to Tommy and d’Artagnan and could clearly hold her own with them. 

“Isn’t she lovely?” came a third voice.

D’Artagnan snaked his arms around Constance's waist and surveyed Athos from over her shoulder. “There’s always room for a fourth,” he said, his brown eyes shining with merriment. “We have a massive superking upstairs.”

For years, too many years to count, Tommy’s best friend and lover had been trying to entice Athos into joining them in bed, his wicked words and sinful smiles an everlasting source of amusement for the pair. 

“Leave the poor man alone,” said Constance. “You two, bugger off and play in the road.”

“We would but you’ll be disappointed because there's never any traffic along here,” said d’Artagnan, kissing her on the neck and making her shiver with pleasure.

He then swapped her for Athos and held on tight. “It’s good to see you. I thought you’d turn up looking like a mountain man, all covered in hair and playing a banjo.”

Athos almost managed a laugh. It had taken him hours to trim back his beard and shave it away. He’d even had a hair cut. The huff of amusement soon turned to sadness. He longed to be a recluse again.

“I live in Norfolk not Virginia,” he said, pulling free of the embrace. 

“Same thing, apart from the mountains,” said d'Artagnan. “Rural life and incest. We’ll come and visit you soon for some of that,” he added with a wink.

“Go away,” insisted Constance. “This one looks like he could do with a peaceful cup of tea.” She checked her watch. “Or maybe a glass of wine.”

“Tea would be lovely,” said Athos, despite the fact that all of him was crying out for the second option.

With Constance still chattering away nineteen to the dozen, they wandered into a kitchen which was no longer a higgledy-piggledy assortment of non matching cupboards and now came straight from the Ikea showroom. Planting himself on one of the beech worktops, Athos looked out of the window and assessed the teetering stack of clouds for the likelihood of thunder.

A storm seemed inevitable. “Is this everyone?” he asked. 

Constance shook her head. “Aramis is down on the beach with Anne.”

That last name cut through Athos like a sword. Bisected by pain, he closed his eyes and focused on the present. Not that Anne. Not his Anne.

“They’re taking Louis for a paddle while the tide is out,” continued Constance, unaware that Athos was a broken down wreck.

This was the reason he stayed away from people. These people specifically.

Constance filled the pot with hot water and teabags then joined him in looking out of the window. “They’ll be back soon,” she said. “Anne’s been keeping Aramis occupied while he waits for his new boyfriend to turn up. He must be serious about this one. He’s in a right state. Seriously jittery.” She looked curiously at Athos. “He’s your best mate, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Athos, barely able to speak. They’d known each other from prep school and had deliberately chosen the same university afterwards. For years they had been inseparable, loving each other in an open hearted way that was never ruined by the intrusion of sex. Aramis reserved that side of him for everyone else in the universe and Athos had spent his youth untangling many paths of true love. It had been a constant source of relief that he’d never wanted to fuck his promiscuous best friend. They had drunk kissed once and it had only resulted in laughter. Theirs was a language of quiet secrets and innocent hugs. He missed those.

“Is he always this muddlesome about relationships?”

“Yes,” replied Athos with a nod. “He is.”

“Here come the three drowned rats,” chuckled Constance. “At least that last shower will have washed off most of the sand before it gets all over the floor. I hate hoovering.”

Athos watched as his friends trooped in front of the window. Perfectly separate in their togetherness.

“You bastard,” said Aramis as he came in through the kitchen door, launching himself at Athos, hauling him off the countertop and into his arms. “You utter utter bastard. I missed you so much. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Idiot man,” said Athos affectionately, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of sea and rain. “It’s not been that long.”

“Five years,” said Anne, holding Louis in her arms. “You’ve never even seen your godchild. We had to have Tommy stand in as proxy at the christening.”

“I emailed,” said Athos weakly as he dragged himself free of Aramis the way he had done with both Tommy and d’Artagnan. He’d tried to write more often, but there was only so much time you could spend staring at a blank screen, waiting for words to appear. He’d sent presents, signed cards with a single scribbled name where once it had been two. “Let me have a look at this son of yours.”

The child ducked shyly away from his scrutiny and Athos sympathised. “I don’t like the attention either,” he said in a gentle voice. “I’ll let you get used to me first.”

The boy turned his head and smiled fleetingly at him. He was an attractive blend of both parents, favouring Anne slightly more than Aramis. They would have been a beautiful family if they had only tried harder. The thought hurt, stuck in his throat like a ragged sob waiting to be vomited out. Why did no one ever try?

Oblivious to being the cause of this sudden lurch of pain, Aramis checked his whistling phone. “Oh shit, he’ll be here in five minutes,” he yelped. “Apparently he got waylaid, by what I don’t know. Shit, I have to get changed and try and make myself look half decent.”

“Your daddy is such a girl.” Anne kissed Louis and hefted him up in her arms. “Let’s go upstairs and get you out of these sandy clothes, munchkin.”

All three departed as one, leaving behind a trail of devastation that was invisible to the eye.

“Where am I sleeping?” Athos asked Constance once they were alone again. There were too many here for comfort. Too many bodies in odd permutations. The ones that should be sharing a room weren’t.

“There’s a mattress made up for you in the study upstairs,” said Constance apologetically.

Athos remembered it well -- more of a cupboard than a room, with a single tiny arrow slit of a window.

“Or you can always kip downstairs on the sofa.” She finally remembered to pour the tea which by now was a dark orange in colour, just the way Athos liked it. “I don’t think anyone actually expected you to turn up.”

“My brother promised that it was going to be just me and him,” said Athos, staring downwards at the toes of his shoes as if they held all the answers. 

“Shit,” said Constance. “Tommy can be a thoughtless prat at times.”

“If I’d known there was going to be a crowd then I wouldn’t have come,” admitted Athos. “I thought-” He stared vacantly into space. “I suppose it doesn't matter what I thought. Would it be dreadfully rude if I just went home?”

“It would,” said Constance matter of factly as she handed him a mug. “Plus you’ve had a long drive to get here and you can't do it twice in one day. Stay the night and see how you feel in the morning.”

Before Athos had a chance to reply they were serenaded by two different sounds -- tyres on the gravel driveway and footsteps racing down the stairs.

“I’m guessing lover boy’s arrived,” said Constance. “Come on. Let’s go meet the new one before he gets replaced.”

 

\---

 

No.

This couldn't be happening.

Athos viewed life in slow motion as the door of the Mercedes swung open and out jumped a tall and strikingly handsome black man, all too familiar. He then watched as Aramis attacked him with kisses, tongue swiping across lips that would still taste of sticky sweet coffee.

Three hours ago he had said goodbye, never expecting to see him again.

“This is Porthos,” said Aramis, brimming over with pride as if he were presenting a prize winning stud.

The thunder was all in Athos’ head. That connection between them was still there. Broken of course, as was everything in his life. Mismatched and awkward, but very much alive. 

“Hello,” he said politely, noticing that Porthos was carrying one of the books he'd bought in the shop.

“I’ve told you about this screw up.” Aramis clutched at Porthos’ free hand and nodded towards Athos. “I can’t believe you actually get to meet him. I was sure he was lost for good-”

Lost. Lonely. Alone. Unable to unfasten his eyes from Porthos, Athos walked away leaving Aramis in mid sentence.

They tried to push apart the magnets, but were inevitably drawn together, meeting up in an empty room to exchange furtive words that were both accusatory and guilty, despite the fact that no sin had been committed.

“You said you were holidaying with friends.”

“You said an aunt.”

“My aunt’s house.” Athos sighed. “It was the truth.”

“You said your name was Olivier,” said Porthos in an undertone as they faced each other down.

“Also the truth.” Athos felt no need to explain. 

“If you’d told me you were Athos then I’d have known. I could have- We could have-”

“We could have what?”

The sound of approaching footsteps drove Athos outside and he ran to the car, rummaging in the glove box for a packet of emergency cigarettes and a lighter. 

After chain smoking two Bensons he returned to the house, wiping the rain from his face.

The others were all gathered in the huge living room, Aramis sitting beside Porthos on the sofa, moulded against his contours. 

“So who was it who waylaid you?” he asked. “Tell all.”

Green eyes met brown across the divide of the room.

“Christopher Isherwood,” replied Porthos. “He’s great. Impossible to put down.”

Aramis frowned. “You chose a book over me.”

“You don’t choose books. Books choose you,” said Porthos and that connection grew ever stronger.

It was disconcerting to finally want something after such a long abstinence, knowing without doubt that it was never going to happen. Hating his life more than ever, Athos left them to it and carried his suitcase upstairs to the box room which was smaller than he had remembered -- a cell fit for a prisoner. Or perhaps a monk.

At dinner they placed him next to Anne. They were at the far end of the table, separated from the others by little Louis in his high chair, although Athos imagined it was intended as some kind of forced intimacy rather than a case of Coventry.

“Am I your date?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

He knew her well. Had known her as long as he had known his own Anne. The two girls had been friends at university -- Her Majesty and Milady, two Heathers from a grown up version of high school.

“It seems so,” she replied with a twinkle. “Tommy’s decided that I’ll fix you.”

“I wish you could,” said Athos.

“I wish I could too, but I rather think you’re a hopeless case.” She fed Louis spoonfuls of mashed potato and gravy and he tried to grab the spoon from her, pouting when she outwitted him. 

“Mine Mumma.”

“You’ll make a mess,” she said and remained in charge of feeding time at the zoo.

As heartbreaking as it was, Athos found some peace in this small tableau. He ate his own food absentmindedly and when the little boy had finished and cried to be lifted free of the chair, he took him from Anne and sat him on his knee.

“Your turn to eat,” he told her.

“Thanks,” she said, aiming a look of irritation at Aramis who was utterly preoccupied with Porthos. “He promised me he was going to help out.”

“He’s busy,” said Athos.

“Too busy for any of us it seems,” muttered Anne. 

“And yet you still love him,” observed Athos.

“It’s impossible not to,” said Anne. “If only there were a cure.”

Athos raised an eyebrow at her. “I empathise.”

“You’ll get over her,” said Anne. “One day.”

Athos thought back to an afternoon of ice creams and easy conversation. “I’d believe you if I didn't have absolute proof that the gods are cruel bastards.” He glanced at Porthos, shielded from view by a solid little fellow who was playing with his cars on the table. “If I go home tomorrow you won’t be offended?”

“Please don’t,” said Anne. “I need a sympathetic shoulder and I’m certain you do too.”

They could leave together, run away from this beautiful horrible place before events overwhelmed them -- watch the crab boats from the pier at Cromer and pretend that they were a family.

“I don’t make promises,” said Athos. Promises were always broken. Except for one. The cruellest one of all. “But I’ll try my best.”

“Thank you.” Anne reached for his hand and Louis sealed their pact, adding his own to the pile.

It was a party of two halves, one end of the table grown up and well behaved, despite the fact that a two year old toddler was amongst them. The others were drinking steadily, bottle after bottle being opened, the contents of each swiftly disposed of.

After dinner, whilst Anne was putting Louis to bed, the rest gathered in the living room for Charades, an entire cupboard full of board games ruled out as being far too complicated. They played in teams of old versus young. Porthos was not one of the heavy drinkers and he and Athos flew through the clues, leaving Aramis flabbergasted and laughing, celebrating them with Prosecco once they had destroyed their opponents. 

Later, Athos excused himself for a cigarette and sat outside on a bench, wondering why there were never any boats to be seen. What had happened to the fishermen? The sea here was a desert.

“Penny for 'em,” said a gruff voice, startling Athos back to the present.

Porthos pinched the cigarette from his fingers, taking a drag and then handing it back with a mournful expression. “Smoking’s bad for you.”

“Life’s bad for you,” said Athos with a half smile of regret. “What did Aramis tell you about me?”

“He said you were sad,” replied Porthos, taking the other end of the bench and leaving a meaningful gap between them. “He wasn’t exaggerating.”

“I expect he was.” Athos stubbed out his cigarette and stowed the butt in an old plant pot. “He always does.”

“My ears are burning,” said Aramis, squeezing in between the two men and draping an arm around each one. He let out a loud sigh of contentment. “I have a best friend and a boyfriend to play with for a whole fortnight. Could life get any better?”

It could, thought Athos. It really could.

“What’s there to do around here?” continued Aramis.

Athos shrugged. “Other than the King’s Head, there’s castles, caves and coastal walks. Not much else of note.”

“Sounds perfect for endless days of drinking and alfresco sex.” Aramis swallowed the dregs of his wine, putting his glass down on the ground. “Talking of which.”

With one swift manoeuvre--no mean feat for a man as drunk as he was--he straddled Porthos' knee and grabbed him by the shirt collar, reeling him in for kisses.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Athos, feeling more lonely than ever, the weight of it a pain in his chest.

 

\---

 

He had been wrong earlier. This wasn’t a cell at all. It was a chamber of horrors, sandwiched between two love nests. Hours of relentless sex torture left him hard, hot and frustrated, but unable to contemplate the idea of a wank, he changed one letter and went for a walk instead, taking the path that led down to the beach.

Even at two in the morning it was humid enough to make him sweat. The sea was on the retreat, the sand thick and sloppy, and he took off his shoes, leaving them on a rock as he walked out to follow the tide. The water lapped at his toes, cooling and soft with salt. He and Thomas had played here as children, earned their swimming badges body surfing the waves on windy days, diving down to the bottom and collecting unknown treasures.

Without thinking he stripped off, leaving his clothing on the wet sand and wading out to where the water was deep and dappled with moonlight. It was icy fresh, just the wake up call that he needed. Free from frustrations of all kinds, he swam and swam until his muscles ached and he was far out from the shore.

It was Porthos who made him stop, but not the real version, who at this moment would be curled up in bed with Aramis, captivated by him as people always were. Athos had never been jealous before. Aramis had his lovers whilst he would always have the side of Aramis that no one else could reach. Hurricane Porthos had changed everything. Stolen parts of Athos that were supposed to remain unavailable. Stretched a friendship to breaking point without even knowing it. The rift needed mending before it was time to leave.

The sea was outwardly calm and yet beneath the surface there was a determined rip. Becoming aware of the steady drag, he was stirred into a sudden burst of speed, arms and legs powering through the water, breathless with relief once his feet touched ground.

Away from the lure of the deep, dark water he dressed quickly, slightly embarrassed by his actions despite the fact that no one was there to witness them. Looking thoughtfully in both directions he made his choice, running along the sand and back to the crumbling path that led up the cliff. 

According to the oversized clock on the kitchen wall it was almost four by the time he returned. He’d been gone two hours and the sun would soon be up. He could already see a brightening on the horizon. There was something empowering about a night with no sleep, but it was also terribly destructive. 

As were other things. 

He stared at the half drunk bottle of Chianti sitting innocently on the chopping board, then made a sudden grab for it, putting it to his lips and arching backwards, anointed by its dry wetness. Keeping his mouth sealed he held the pose, shimmering with desire, desperate for the solace this would bring. Today he was able to resist, replacing the bottle carefully, getting a new cloth from the packet under the sink then wetting it and wiping the wine stain from his lips. His prints from the shoulders of the bottle. 

Tomorrow?

Folding himself into the right angle corner of the leather couch he tucked a cushion under his head and slept.

 

\---

 

“Don’t you have a bed here?”

Athos groaned and rolled over, stretching out from a jack knife position. He looked up, forcing his eyes to focus, aware that he’d soon be needing glasses. A permanent state of exhaustion and too much time spent staring at a screen was having a detrimental effect on his vision.

“What?” he murmured.

Porthos sat next to him. “Do you have a room?”

“A cupboard.” Athos smirked. “Though it does come complete with a mattress. It’s okay. I’m the only single so it makes sense.”

Porthos reached out and brushed sand from his arm. “You’ve been out already?”

“Last night was too hot to sleep.” Athos sat up and ran a hand through his hair. It was thick with salt and a wavy mess. “I went for a swim.”

“You should’ve woken me up.”

Porthos had beautiful eyes that matched his smile. Despite knowing the danger, Athos still felt safe when he was with him.

“You and Aramis were occupied,” he said, so safe that he was able to tease a little. “It wasn’t hard to miss.”

“Oh shit,” said Porthos and his blush matched the rosy glow of the morning sky. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Athos, enjoying the moment. “Holidays are all about noisy sex.” The teasing drew them together, palms pressed tight, their fingers interlocking. They quickly disengaged. “Coffee and yesterday's crossword?” he suggested brightly.

“I was thinking about going for a run,” replied Porthos, twisting his own hands together this time. “I finished Isherwood last night and I need a new novel. Where’s the shop? My bearings are shit without wheels and a sat nav.”

Athos looked at his watch. It would be open in an hour. They could sit on the terrace, sharing breakfast and conversation. It would be dangerous. More than that, it would be wrong. Porthos was Aramis’ partner. Aramis loved Porthos. Athos loved Aramis and couldn't stomach the idea of hurting him. Not again.

“If you run eastwards along the beach you’ll come to a set of steps,” he said carefully, avoiding the pitfalls. “Turn left at the top. It opens at seven for the papers.”

“Okay. Right. Thanks,” said Porthos. “You’re probably tired after your midnight swim.”

“I am,” said Athos, closing his eyes. It was better this way.

He went back to sleep, awoken next time by the everyday clamour of a houseful of people. This time he had to get up.

“We’re going into town,” said Aramis, grabbing the keys to his Citroen from the oversized wooden plate on the table. “Us lot need to try on clothes and Porthos wants a new book.”

Athos looked sideways. “I thought you were going to pick one up at the village shop.”

“Couldn’t be bothered,” said Porthos with a shrug. “I just went for a run instead.”

“Do people still read paperbacks?” D’Artagnan looked amazed. “How archaic.”

“Athos does,” said Tommy. “He’s a proper old man, aren’t you, bruv? We’d take you with us, but there’s no space in the car.”

“I don’t mind staying behind,” said Constance, throwing Athos a look. 

Athos understood her meaning but this wasn’t the occasion for talk. When that happened it was going to hurt. Split apart by the fallout from a will, the healing process was going to be painful. His father hadn’t intended Tommy to feel so excluded. He was simply a traditionalist. When their parents had died, one after the other in quick succession, Athos had been an empty shell of a man, unable to make things right with his brother.

“I loathe shopping,” said Athos and he smiled at the girl. It turned out that new faces were easier than old. “Pick me up a novel when you’re in Waterstones. Anything will do as long as it’s not chick lit.”

As couple and threesome left the cottage, Athos thanked his lucky stars that there wasn’t room for him on the road trip. Keeping his thoughts free of Porthos, he had a cold shower, the icy needles of water immediately dispelling any untoward thoughts that may have lingered from that early morning conversation. The weather was still ridiculously humid and he rummaged in his bag, putting on the only pair of shorts he’d brought with him which were intended for swimming but would do just as well for a day of lounging about.

“We’re going for a picnic,” said Anne as soon as he appeared downstairs.

“Have fun,” he replied, grateful for the chance of a few hours’ solitude.

“No,” she said, hands on hips. “We three are going on a picnic. I need help with Louis.”

Athos cocked his head to one side and stared her down. It was a technique that had always served him well in the past.

“That won’t work with me,” she laughed. “I know you of old, Athos. You never could deny a damsel in distress.”

Athos muttered his disapproval as he obediently put on trainers and t-shirt. “I’m way past being a gentleman.”

“Of course you are,” said Anne as she watched him pick up the rucksack and then Louis' bucket and spade. 

“Mine,” said Louis taking the toys from him.

“Terribly sorry,” replied Athos, his lips tugging at the corners.

It was a fun day. Everywhere else in the world he was content to immerse himself in a book, but here at the beach he wanted to play, digging shallow pools for Louis to paddle in and watching over him at the water’s edge as he filled his bucket and carried it back up the beach.

“You’re a godsend,” yawned Anne, as she rolled over to her front, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“I loved it down here when I was a child,” said Athos. “I still do. It’s nice to see the next generation having just as much fun as I did.” 

They both watched Louis fill his bucket with sand as if it were a task of vital importance.

“Daddy is an abstract concept to him and that’s not fair,” said Anne. “Aramis is a wonderful father when he’s around, but it’s never enough. I want someone there all the time.”

“You want Aramis all the time,” said Athos. “I can have a word with him if you like?”

“What’s the point?” replied Anne despondently. “This week he’s madly in love with Porthos. Next week it'll be someone new. I’m yesterday's news.”

“He’ll settle down eventually,” said Athos, taking the bucket from Louis, patting it with the spade, smoothing it and then tipping it out. Louis clapped and then jumped on the castle until it was a squashed mess, resembling Athos’ crumbling edifice of a heart.

“Constance thinks Porthos is the one,” said Anne. “She says Aramis is different when he's with him, but I can’t see it. Perhaps I’m too close.”

“Porthos is great,” said Athos, trying to sound upbeat. “If he’s permanent he’ll make sure that Aramis remembers to be a good dad all the time.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Anne, sitting up and opening the picnic basket. “Sandwich or sausage roll?

It was late when they finally made their way back up the cliff path, Louis half asleep in Athos’ arms. “He’s a little sweetheart,” he said quietly as he looked down at his load.

Anne laughed. “You won’t think that when he's wide awake at midnight and making a nuisance of himself.”

“Much like his father,” remarked Athos, with a sudden and unexpected grin.

 

\---

 

“Your heart is a muscle the size of a fist.” Athos read the title with no small amount of wry amusement. They were accurate words for some, but not for him. His own heart was shrivelled with atrophy.

The book from Constance was a surprise. He’d been expecting Robert Low or Hilary Mantel, something from a piled up table at the front of the shop, but this was new to him.

“Porthos says it’s good,” said Constance with a hopeful smile. “I was going to get you an Ian McEwan, but he reckons you’ll have read them all. Same with Cormac McCarthy.”

Porthos was right.

Athos was rocked by a feeling of torsion coming from deep inside him. It was beyond all reason that relative strangers would care enough to spend their time choosing a book that might please him. It said a lot that the people he had known the longest weren't involved. They had banged heads against his brick wall for long enough.

The novel was excellent, political motivated, something different but engaging, and Athos would have found it impossible to put down if it hadn’t been for the distraction of a new friend.

Entirely used to him by now, Louis showed puppy like devotion, following him everywhere. It wasn't a problem. Building Lego towers and reading stories was a new form of solace. It also allowed Anne to have some time to herself -- a thing every single parent in the world craved most.

“He likes you,” said Aramis, watching from the doorway as Athos set up a miniature train set and arranged farm animals around it. “No one likes you.”

“You did once.” Athos swallowed compulsively.

Aramis sat cross-legged next to him, pulling Louis into his lap. “I still do, Athos. I love you. You just have to stop being a dick.”

“I will if you will.” Shy--shyer than he’d ever been in his life--Athos stood up. “I have to go. You look after your son. Anne’s in the bath.”

“Athos.” Aramis let out an exasperated breath. “Athos wait. Please.”

Athos escaped through the kitchen, past bodies that revolved in a celestial path around the central island, making his way outside to a place where he could breathe. He took the other, less trod path that twisted down the cliff, pushing through nettles bushes and ignoring the shivery stinging sensation from the hairs on their thick stems.

Hurting in so many ways, he sank down into the dry sand at the top of the beach, burying his hands in its heat and delving down to where it was cool and beige rather than silky white.

“I thought you might need these,” said a gruff voice. “I know I do.”

A shower of leaves descended over him like confetti. An ancient remedy that would never go as deep as it needed. He scrunched up the docks and rubbed them over the patterns of small white blisters that were already forming on his skin.

“Let me,” said Porthos, holding his hand and tending to the ones on the delicate skin of right wrist. “I’ve never seen nettles so huge.”

“They can grow into trees if they’re sheltered and left alone,” said Athos. Whereas he just withered and died. “You should be with Aramis.”

“I’m with Aramis all day, every day,” replied Porthos, sitting back but still keeping hold of Athos’ hand. “You need to talk to him and your brother about whatever it is that’s bothering you. Sort it out before it’s too late.”

But what if the damage were too great?

“Do you want to see those caves I was telling you about?” said Athos. “They’re not far from here.” Reluctantly he freed his hand from where it was safe within Porthos’ and stood up.

“Athos.”

His name had become a rebuke all of its own. “They’re quite spectacular,” he continued.

“You’re going whether I do or not, I suppose?”

“I’m going,” said Athos, the sentence dual purpose. He’d made up his mind. Enough was enough. 

The sand here was dry enough to be quick. They sank into it, each step three times the effort of normal as they followed the edge of the hillside which steepened and gradually turned to looming rock. 

“I love the way it changes around here so suddenly,” said Athos, stopping and looking back at the way they’d come. The cottage was still visible, nestled in woodland on top of verdant hills. What lay ahead of them was, in contrast, threatening and mysterious. 

They clambered the rocks at the tip of the promontory, Porthos more surefooted than he, despite being a newcomer. Closer to the sea, the rock pools were abundant with life, and Athos stopped to gaze, following the darting movements as small fish were chased off by his shadow.

“Better hurry so we don’t get cut off by the tide,” said Porthos, leaping a wide chasm of rock. “Here,” he said holding out a hand to help Athos across.

He didn’t need it but he took it anyway. “We won't get marooned,” he replied with a tug of the lips. Although it was a nice idea. Alone on a desert island, they could do exactly as they wished and no one would ever judge them for it.

“Pity,” laughed Porthos. “Get a move on. I want to see these caves. They’d better not be a disappointment.”

They were far from it. The entrance was partially obscured, the passageway narrow and low as it tunneled its way into the cliff face. It was easy to imagine the smugglers heaving barrels of wine through this crawlspace and then stacking them in the cathedral like cavern that was opening up before them. 

“It’s amazing,” said Porthos, looking around in wonder at the vast area that was decorated with stalactites and glistening with water. He switched on his phone torch to examine it in greater detail. “Can we go any further?”

“Probably best not,” said Athos. “There’s a little natural light at this point but it’ll soon be gone.”

“Imagine this at night. How eerie would that be?”

“Eerie as hell.” He’d hidden out here, not when he was a child but years later when he was older. Alone. Abandoned. “I slept in them once.”

“By accident or on purpose?”

“On purpose, I suppose.” He’d come here to cry, before he’d forgotten how. Maybe he’d used up his quota of tears that night.

“And you’re not going to tell me any more?”

Athos shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell. I came here. I spent the night and then I went home.”

“You have to let go,” said Porthos. “If you keep pushing everyone away then one day, when you need them, they won't remember who you are.”

“I can’t,” said Athos and the pain swelled inside him, black and corrupt. “I’m not ready. I told them. I tried. I can’t.”

“Come here,” said Porthos and the hug that followed was a blanket.

This time Athos didn't try to disentangle himself. He breathed into the comfort, clung on as if his life depended on it and felt hideously guilty for doing something so innocent that felt so disloyal.

“It’s just a hug,” said Porthos, his voice rumbling like the distant thunder of an approaching storm. “We both needed one.”

“I don’t want to go back,” said Athos, his mouth pressed against Porthos’ shoulder.

“Yeah, you do,” came the answer. “It’s barbecue tonight and I'm cooking. Chicken’s already marinating and it's gonna be hot, baby.”

Athos laughed -- a real one this time, not a huff of misplaced amusement but an honest to god chuckle.

“There you go,” said Porthos, pulling back and looking at him in the half-light, beaming with delight. “My jerk chicken’s a cure for everything, even nettle stings and sadness.” 

The kiss was a fleeting one between friends, a press of lips, rough, soft and sweet, but it was enough to kick-start Athos’ heart like a pacemaker.

“It feels as if I've known you forever,” muttered Porthos.

They were together but separate, just like everyone else.


	2. Chapter 2

That evening, with Louis exhausted after a trek around a nearby castle and now safely tucked away in bed, adult playtime began early. The air was pleasantly warm, heady with scent of citronella and spiced meat. Athos breathed in harmonious wafts of dope smoke and wondered why he was so afraid of his friends. Once upon a time they had been a close knit pack.

“Smiling again? Miracles can happen.” Porthos winked at him, thrusting a glass of ice cold Sauvignon into his hand. “It’ll help chill you out.”

Athos trusted him. Wine wasn’t the enemy. He sipped at it, his tongue tingling from the crisp, dry flavour. Too much was the enemy and everything would be fine as long as he was careful. Polishing it off in a couple of gulps, he lay back in the grass, listening to the insect hum of conversation around him. This could be a pleasant holiday if only he’d let it off the lead. 

As relaxed as he’d been for years, he ate and drank steadily, curiously detached as he observed everyone around him. Porthos was cooking dish after dish of meat, apron on and smile in place. Aramis spent his time flitting between boyfriend and ex, sharing his attentions equally between them both. The ménage a trois were giggling from the effects of the weed, sprawled out on a collection of loungers and touching limbs together in order to stay connected. Tommy aimed the occasional nervous glance at Athos as if he were a stranger in their midst rather than a long lost brother.

Time fast forwarded again and the barbecue had stopped spitting fat. Porthos the chef had removed his apron and was now wiping his plate clean with half a burger bun. 

“We’ll play Truth or Dare,” Aramis declared, running fingers through untameable hair.

“No,” said Anne. “Why ever would you pick that as entertainment?”

“Because it’ll be fun,” shrugged Aramis. “We’re all drunk enough.”

“I’m not,” said Anne, the responsible parent amongst them.

Athos cringed at the idea. They should call it the Game of Hurt. Along with Never Have I and Spin the Bottle, it was the most divisive form of bloodsport known to man. 

“Isn’t that just for teenagers?” laughed Constance, although she was stoned enough not to dismiss the idea out of hand.

“It'll suit us fine,” said d’Artagnan, kissing her soundly on the mouth.

Athos stood up to leave but was halted by Aramis.

“Stay,” he said, pleading rather than asking. “You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to.”

“Then why bother playing at all?” Athos didn’t understand the point of this.

Aramis shrugged, young and hopeful. “Because I want to.”

Anne was right. He was impossible not to love. Athos had forgotten how deeply his feelings were rooted.

“I want you here,” continued Aramis in a low voice. “Really here. This is the last time I ever try.”

He stumbled towards Athos, holding on tight. “Don’t leave me again. Please.”

“How drunk _are_ you?” murmured Athos.

“Too much? Not enough?” Aramis kissed him on the cheek and took a step back, still holding onto his upper arms. “Who knows? Time will tell.”

Athos hung his head. He’d been thoughtless and selfish rejecting them the way he had done. A fresh glass of wine, red this time, found its way into his hand and he sank back into the cushions that covered the rattan sofa with Aramis nested close beside him.

Porthos lounged on the grass at their feet and for a brief moment of insanity Athos considered the possibilities of a threesome. Thomas, D'Artagnan and Constance were happy enough -- never jealous, never fretful.

The game began and Athos zoned out, still drifting on the cusp of a fantasy life.

“Have you ever worn women’s clothes?” d’Artagnan asked Aramis.

Aramis let out a dismissive snort. “Tame question,” he said derisively. “Of course I have. What man hasn’t tried it at least once?”

“I bet Athos hasn’t,” said d’Artagnan.

“No I haven’t and that counts as my question for this round,” smirked Athos, pleased at having outwitted them.

“Cheat.” D’Artagnan flicked a friendly V at him.

“Well played,” said Porthos with a grin. “Your turn to ask.”

“Constance, truth or dare,” said Athos.

“Truth of course,” she replied, smoothing down the panels of her sundress.

“Who does the majority of the cooking and housework in your flat?” Athos knew that the three had been living together for over a year now. He also knew that his brother and d’Artagnan were lazy little fuckers and always had been.

Constance frowned. “I do,” she admitted. “But things are going to change as soon as we get back.”

“Thanks a lot, bruv,” muttered Tommy, skinning up another joint. 

The questions went on, no one ever taking a dare, and Athos was surprised how considerate they were all being with each other. Perhaps Truth or Dare should be a game reserved for adults.

The most intimate question so far had been when Constance asked Anne if she had ever pegged a boyfriend. She replied with a short affirmative and her eyes had drifted straight to Aramis. Athos was surprised, not that Aramis would want such a thing, but that Anne could be so open minded as far as sex was concerned. His short lived marriage seemed vanilla in comparison. Innocent and sweet. They had never ventured far from the realms of ordinary -- no dressing up and certainly no kink-play. She'd known about his previous experiences with guys but had never enquired too deeply. He was a public school boy. These things were expected.

He topped up his glass from the nearby bottle, using it as a tool to blot out the past.

“Attaboy,” grinned Aramis.

This was okay. This he could deal with. Pleasantly buzzed from the joints that were being passed around, he listened to the questions and laughed at the answers, sipping at his drink rather than chugging it and taking occasional puffs from a cigarette that sat mostly neglected in an ashtray.

It was now Porthos’ turn to be question master and Athos wondered who would be chosen for the hot seat, surprised when the honour turned out to be his.

“Truth,” he replied with a smile.

“Why did you get divorced?”

The world came to a standstill and Athos could feel every pair of eyes lock onto him. Why on earth hadn’t Aramis told Porthos what had happened? It was, after all, the reason he was so damaged.

“You don't have to answer,” said Tommy, eyes bright and full of pain.

“Honestly, Ath, I’ll tell him later,” said Aramis. “Have another drink and we’ll play cards or something.”

“I’ll answer,” said Athos, sitting up straight and staring at the contents of his glass. It’s not as if it was a secret and five years was long enough to be holding on to this amount of pain. “We didn't get divorced,” he said carefully, wondering where to begin. The beginning seemed best. “I met her at university and fell in love instantly.” He may have lost her but he would never be parted from the memory of those sparkling green eyes and a wicked, gap toothed smile that always made him laugh. “Mum and Dad loved her too and they were over the moon when we said we were getting married, even though we were so young. It was a nice wedding.”

“It was brilliant,” said d’Artagnan and Tommy buried his face in his hands.

Porthos looked panic stricken and Athos felt guilty, but grateful. If he could let go of this then it might finally be over. It was time.

“We were happy,” he continued and this was an understatement. “She thought she was pregnant and took a couple of tests, but they came back negative and so she went to the doctor.”

The worst days of his life.

“When we found out she had cancer I promised her she'd get better. She was twenty four, for christ's sake. People don’t die when they’re twenty four. I promised her she wouldn't and I lied.” Til death us do part. That was the one promise he successfully managed to keep.

Aramis was holding his hand, squeezing it in a pumping motion as if he was trying to keep the blood flowing back to his crippled heart.

“A year later Dad got sick. Heart disease this time. He died and then Mum too and afterwards I- I couldn’t cope. I couldn't do this.” He swung his arm around helplessly at the group of people he’d rejected for loving him too much. They would be safer without him.

Climbing unsteadily to his feet he walked over to his brother. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you back then. I hated everything about the will but I didn't know how to fix it. I should have tried harder, but you were angry with me and it was easier to walk away.”

Tommy stood up, an inch taller in height but still the baby.

“I wasn’t angry about the will,” he said, as defiant as always. “I didn’t give a shit about it, never have never will. I was scared, Athos. Mum died of a broken heart and you’re so much like her. I couldn't be around when it happened to you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m a coward and I should have been there for you when you needed me.”

It was easy to hug Tommy now, shaking with emotion and damp with tears. He smelled the same as he had done when he was a child, although now it was tinged with cannabis and regret.

“We’re both cowards,” said Athos, leaning in and up in order to land a kiss on his forehead. “But no more, eh? Let’s be a family again.”

“I’d like that,” said Tommy earnestly. Puck had exited the stage.

The chill crept upwards through the earth herding them inside, but instead of going to bed, they moved to the living room. The girls drifted slowly away and before long it was five men camped out on the L-shaped sofa with Athos in the middle, flanked by Tommy and Aramis.

D'Artagnan chose a DVD then used the box as a rest to skin up. “This is the most recent movie I could find,” he said as the music to Pirates of the Caribbean began playing.

Oblivious to everything Tommy snored gently, his head resting on Athos’ shoulder. They'd never been this close before, neither needing protection from angry parents, both of them pleasantly spoilt by a happy childhood.

Aramis also remained connected to him, his thumb brushing compulsively across skin. “I tried to talk to you.”

“I know,” said Athos, lifting their conjoined hands and kissing Aramis’ knuckles. “I was a lost cause.”

“Until bigmouth came along.” Aramis grinned sideways at his partner.

Porthos stood up, looking anywhere but at Athos. “If someone had said something,” he muttered. “Look, I’m knackered. I’m off to bed.”

“Porthos,” said Athos, low and urgent, and just for a second their eyes met. “Everything’s fine. Everything's good. Please stay.”

“Here, bud,” said d’Artagnan holding out a joint. “Chill out time.”

“I really am pretty shattered, guys,” said Porthos, declining the proffered spliff with a shake of the head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Athos watched him go and wondered how to stop the tide. He was King Cnut seated on his wooden throne, trying in vain to hold back the ocean.

 

\---

 

It was odd how everything had changed and yet at the same time, had remained exactly the same. Athos was still alone, but now he was no longer lonely. 

The holiday had come alive. Or perhaps it was he who had been reborn into the spirit of it. No longer separate entities they all played together and laughed together, enjoying long walks and taking turns to entertain Louis with Aramis learning to be devoted, full time, to his little prince of a son. 

“Ten across,” said Athos with a smirk. He liked this clue. “Dis or dat duck?”

“Eider,” chuckled Porthos.

“You two are mental,” said Aramis, shaking his head. “Anne and I are taking Louis shopping for shoes. Anyone want to come along for the ride?”

“Count me out,” said Porthos, grabbing the newspaper from Athos to fill in some more clues. “You guys have a blast.”

Athos also politely declined the invitation. “Take him to Waterstones and buy him some new books while you’re in town. I’m sick of reading the same old stories.”

“Will do,” said Aramis. “Anything you need while we’re out?”

“Nope,” said Athos. “But get some more wine,” he added as an afterthought. “The cellar's run dry.”

“Disaster.” Aramis grinned. “You’ll have to go the pub.”

Athos dismissed this idea, but by lunchtime with the weather having turned murky he reconsidered Aramis' suggestion. There was only so long you could watch three idiots play Xbox without going insane.

He and Porthos exchanged looks. 

“Want to do something?”

“How about the King’s Head,” suggested Athos. “It”s not exactly hiking weather.”

Porthos grinned. “You’re on,” he said jumping to his feet. “Last man there buys the first round.”

They didn't race for long, Athos stopping to retie his shoelace with Porthos waiting for him and looking out to sea. 

“It’s still beautiful here, even when the weather's shit.”

“You haven’t seen anything that vaguely resembles weather yet,” said Athos, standing to join him. “I love it when a storm comes in. Nothing can beat the sound of breakers crashing on the rocks.” He breathed in misty air. “All that spare energy floating around is invigorating.”

“I like this,” said Porthos. “The way the cliffs disappear into the fog is sort of mysterious.”

This was the word Athos always chose to describe them. It was a continual source of wonder to him how two people could be so attuned to one another from the start.

“I’m glad we’re doing this. I’ve not had a chance to speak to you.” Porthos inched away from him. “Not since, well you know. Me putting my big foot in it.”

“You didn't,” replied Athos. “Quite the reverse in fact. Surely you can see how much good it’s done? You told me I had to let go and you were right.”

“I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions though,” muttered Porthos. “But the way they were with you I never imagined something so awful had happened.”

They started walking again, ambling rather than striding out for the pub despite the ever increasing rainfall.

“There’s only so long you can try and help someone who refuses to be helped,” explained Athos. “They were kind. I wasn’t.”

“You were hurting. They needed to make allowances.”

“And they did,” replied Athos. “For two years, maybe even three. I’d stopped reading their emails long before then, but I’d still write to them occasionally. A few lies, pretending that I was okay. Asking them how they were even though I’d never even glance at the reply. God, I was cold. Dead, I suppose, is a better way to describe it.”

“Sad,” said Porthos, his fingers sweeping against a hand that itched to be held.

“When I met you it felt as if the sun was on the return,” said Athos. “I wanted to tell you everything.”

“But you didn’t.” 

They were closing in on the pub now, double doors latched open to welcome them inside. “What are you drinking?” asked Athos. “They used to do some good local ales.”

Porthos stopped him a stride away from the entrance. “You didn't tell me anything,” he repeated.

“And what would’ve happened if I had?” He’d wanted Porthos immediately. At first word. At first sight. “What would we have done then?”

“This,” said Porthos, leaning in. “But a whole lot quicker.” He cupped Athos' face, thumb brushing across his lips, seeking silent permission to kiss him.

Athos almost accepted, ghosting over that bearded mouth and breathing Porthos in. He ached for more, but knew better and changed the angle, pulling Porthos to him until their foreheads rested together. It was the most significant ‘if only’ of his life.

“Jesus,” murmured Porthos. “Why you? Why us?”

“I don't know.” Athos managed a half smile, far from at ease with the situation and yet still happy. “Life’s a callous bitch. Let’s commiserate with that drink. I’ll even buy you a ploughman's if you’re good.”

“I’m always good,” replied Porthos with a wink. “Now I have to learn to be well behaved with it.”

The King’s Head was an old fashioned spit and sawdust pub, exactly as Athos had remembered it. The smell of beer and woodsmoke was comforting and there was still a vague aroma of cigarettes, probably coming from the yellowed curtains at the windows.

“What can I get you, lads?” asked the barman who was so rushed off his feet that he was perched on his own stool, talking to the only other occupant of the pub -- an old man with a very impressive beard. Possibly one of those elusive fishermen that had gone missing.

“A pint of Old Tarn,” said Porthos.

“Make that two,” said Athos. He pointed at the blackboard above the fireplace. “What do you want to eat?”

“Cheddar ploughman's sounds good.”

“Make that two again please,” said Athos. “Can I open up a tab? We’ll be over by the window.”

“Sure,” said the barman, passing them their pints and returning to his seat.

“This is nice,” said Porthos. “I don't know why it’s not heaving with people.”

“The village is too far away from anywhere and there’s not enough to do here to attract visitors,” said Athos. “Plus there’s no room for a caravan park and hardly any houses.”

“Unspoilt forever,” said Porthos. 

“We can but hope.” Athos took a deep swig of his beer. It was a good one, thick with malt and honey, but not too sweet. “Cheers.”

Porthos tasted it and made a face. “It’s okay, but a bit wintery. Maybe something lighter next. Did you used to come here when you were young?”

Athos nodded. “There was a games room then, through the far end of the bar. It had an ancient racing machine and a pool table. Tommy, Bryony and I would spend hours in there, drinking Coke and eating crisps.”

“While the folks got happily slaughtered?”

“Probably,” laughed Athos. “They were always in a good mood afterwards.”

The food arrived, plates stacked high with cheese, pickles and slabs of warm bread. “Fantastic, thank you,” said Athos. “Do you still have a pool table here?”

“We do indeed,” replied the barman. “And a pinball machine.”

“Well that’s us sorted,” grinned Porthos, spreading butter over his slice of cob.

It had been a long time since Athos had enjoyed an afternoon at the pub. They had a second pint with their lunch, trying out a different guest beer, and by the time the plates were cleared, the drink had gone the same way and it seemed only right to go for a third. 

“Why do I feel like I’m playing truant?” said Porthos as he placed his glass on the window sill and fed money into the pool table. “This is a perfectly normal thing to do on holiday.”

Normal but not quite acceptable, thought Athos as he leant over to break. They were playing hooky from life.

“You’re too good,” said Porthos, leaning on his cue and watching as Athos began to clear the table. 

He then missed a sitter. “You distracted me.”

“How exactly?” said Porthos. “I’m not the one bending over and wiggling my arse.”

“Shut it,” laughed Athos and waved his empty glass. “Another?”

“Why the fuck not,” said Porthos and then he pouted. “Don’t you want to watch me wiggle my arse?”

This might just be flirting, but it was dangerous territory. Taking the empties back to the bar, Athos then went for a piss, his cock feeling overly sensitive in his hand. Drinking always caused trouble. Inhibitions flew out of the window when he was pissed. Shaking away the drips he tucked himself back inside his pants and zipped up. 

Stop drinking and go back to the cottage, he told himself as he washed his hands. 

His reflection argued for the defence, bright eyed and flushed as it stared hopefully back at him. This was exciting. He’d forgotten what it felt like.

“Two pints of Stonemason’s,” he said, working his way along the line of pumps.

“Coming right up.” The barman put the newspaper down and got up off his seat. “Pool table working okay?”

“Fine,” said Athos, taking the drinks. 

“Sounds like your mate’s found the jukebox,” replied the barman. “Hope he's got good taste.”

Athos couldn’t give a damn about music and wondered instead what Porthos tasted like. He carried the the pint glasses back to the games room, careful not to spill them.

“Where've you been?” asked Porthos as Brown Sugar thumped out from the speakers. “I thought about cheating.”

“I needed a pee,” said Athos, lining up his shot.

“Good idea,” said Porthos. “Where’s the bog?”

“Past the bar and down the stairs,” replied Athos, potting a ball. “Hurry up or you’ll miss my winning shot.”

“Arrogant fucker,” chuckled Porthos. 

Athos saved the black until Porthos returned. “See, this is how you do it,” he said, before it was even in. Even drunk, victory was a foregone conclusion and placing his cue on the table, he turned around and grinned as the ball descended with a clunk and a rattle.

“Show off,” said Porthos, situating himself between Athos’ legs, a hand splayed against his hip. He darted forward, coming to a halt as before, asking rather than demanding. 

This in itself was a turn on, as if Athos wasn’t turned on enough already. His heart thundered, pumping blood to all the parts it shouldn’t. He needed to think. To step away. Not lock a hand around the back of Porthos’ neck. Certainly not reach for his mouth. 

It was just a promise to begin with, a brush, a peck, a whisper of a kiss. Slowly, inevitably they opened to one another and it was perfect, as hot and as heady as a summer night. His last true kiss had been a goodbye. This was the opposite.

“God, Athos,” said Porthos, under his breath and his voice was thick with need as they came together, kissing, trying not to kiss, holding back the tide. 

Every touch hit an on switch, and, nerves firing, Athos reacted, searching for more contact, seated on the wooden rim of the table, legs akimbo, arms wrapped around Porthos, pulling him close as he sought out the buttons of his fly and unfastened them one by one, fingers closing around swollen heat.

The jukebox blared out more Stones, Sympathy this time, and Athos moaned like a two dollar whore as Porthos unfastened his jeans and pressed a palm over the hard length that was encased in damp cotton.

“Please,” he begged, filthy with lust and drink and something quieter that felt far more important.

“What the fuck?”

No. God no. Not this. Fear pushed him over the edge and he held Porthos to him like a shield, coming, not coming, dry but shuddering as Aramis blocked the doorway and stared daggers at them, Tommy and d’Artagnan a step behind and peering over his shoulders to see what was going on.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarled.

“Drunk,” said Athos, hands shaking as he fumbled to fasten his jeans. “My fault.”

“No, it’s not,” said Porthos, decent now as he turned and leaned against the pool table, staying next to Athos. “It’s not his fault. It’s nobody’s fault. We like each other. I’m really sorry, Aramis, but we like each other a lot.”

“You pair of cunts,” said Aramis, mouth turned down, eyes fierce. He stared at Athos. “After all the shit that we’ve been through we finally get somewhere and you do this. I don’t know who you are but you’re not my Athos.”

“Please,” said d’Artagnan, eyes wide with panic. “Guys, stop fighting.”

“This is _nothing_ like fighting,” said Aramis. “Wait around a while and you’ll see fighting.”

Tommy pushed past Aramis, positioning himself in between warring factions in case fists were about to fly. “You’ve every right to be angry,” he said. “But laying blame isn't going to help anyone.”

“Believe me, it will,” said Aramis.

“Then blame me,” said Porthos. “But leave Athos out of it.”

“Don’t worry. I blame you all right,” said Aramis, rounding on him this time. “You cheated on me.”

“And you should know because you’re the expert,” said Porthos, on the attack, but folding his arms defensively all the same. 

“You cheated on me with my best friend.” The anger was gone and there were tears in Aramis' eyes. “I’d only just got him back.”

“I’m still here,” said Athos, furious with himself. The drunkenness had vanished, chased away by fear of another loss. 

“Not to me,” said Aramis. “I can't even see you.” He turned and walked away, slowly, sadly and Athos went to go after him, but Tommy blocked the exit. 

“We’ll make sure he’s okay,” he said. “You stay here with Porthos. It’ll be fine.”

“You think?” said Athos, their roles reversed as he looked to Tommy for advice.

“I know,” said Tommy, patting him on the shoulder. Conversation short, sweet, and over, he followed d’Artagnan out of the games room and all would have been silent if it weren’t for the final few chords of the song.

Without saying a word, the two men moved over to the wide stone windowsill and watched as d'Artagnan and Tommy caught up to Aramis. There was a heated discussion which was then followed by hugs and then eventually the three men wandered back along the cliff path towards the cottage. 

Porthos gulped down half his pint and placed the glass back down with a thump. “Four months together and I have no idea what makes him tick. Four minutes and I could feel you inside me.” He thumped his chest and at the same time let loose the foreshadowing of a grin. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

Athos let out a huff of wry amusement. “Maybe you did.”

“Maybe I did,” agreed Porthos.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Athos, his expression reverting to one that matched the inclement weather. “We have to go back there, but I don't know if I can face everyone. What do we tell them?”

“We could say that we’re together,” said Porthos, newly shy and sweet with it. “Is that a possibility?”

“I hope so,” said Athos fervently. “If only I could see a way to get there.” He turned to face Porthos. “We’ve known each other less than a week.” He paused. “This _can't_ be love,” he said, voicing it for the first time.

“If it isn’t then I don’t know what is,” said Porthos.

“Yeah.” Athos looked down at his feet and smiled. He shouldn’t feel so happy. It was wrong. “I expect all holiday romances are the same, especially the emotionally overwrought ones, crippled by angst and unfaithfulness. Let’s face it, Porthos, we’re a bad beach novel.”

“Then things are looking up,” said Porthos with a shrug.

“Why?” Athos was confused. Perhaps he was still drunk after all.

“Because.” Porthos wove their fingers together. “Bad novels always have the best endings. It’s only the good ones that are realistically miserable.” Tucking a crooked finger under Athos’ chin, he tipped his head upwards and examined him with hopeful eyes. “Are we a good read or a bad one?”

“We’re terrible,” decided Athos. “Revoltingly sappy with roses around the door.”

“Me to a tee.” This time Porthos didn't wait for permission for a kiss. They were old hands at it by now, their sequel already past the prologue and well into the first chapter.

 

\---

 

Re-entering Hilltop Cottage was like walking on broken glass, full of emotional booby traps with wary eyes peering out at them from every nook and cranny.

“I’ll leave you to it and go for a run,” declared Porthos.

Fingers slipped free of him and Athos yearned to have them back. “Aramis is your boyfriend,” he said warily.

“And he’s your everything,” replied Porthos with a look. “You two need to make it work.”

Aramis was outside, sitting on one of the benches that overlooked the cliff. At sight of Athos, friends scuttled away like the tiny sand insects on the beach, leaving them to contend with an awkward conversation.

It began in fits and starts, neither man able to look at each other as they gazed out at the empty Saharan sea. Eventually Aramis got down to the nitty gritty of it.

“Do you like him?”

“Yes,” said Athos. Porthos had said that Aramis was his everything, but the truth was that both men shared that honour. He loved them equally. In different ways, true enough, but feelings were feelings and his had always been overpowering. It was the reason he’d needed to lock them away for so long. “Very much.”

“Then I give you my blessing,” said Aramis, stilted and formal. So unlike himself that it stung.

“I’m sorry.” Worries descended again. For a short time Athos had been free of them, in flight and coasting the air currents, but now they were back with a vengeance. “The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you.”

“I believe you.” Aramis turned and looked at him. “Life would be so much easier if we could just fuck.” His eyes brightened with a flash of mercurial spirit. “Shall we give it a go?”

“Remember how well kissing went?” Athos reached for Aramis’ hand, playing with his fingers. “I think we’re have to accept that this is us. I never stopped thinking about you, Aramis. I never meant to build the wall so high.”

“I know,” said Aramis earnestly. “I know you did it to keep us safe, but you’re not a danger to anyone, Athos. You’re our friend, our brother, and we need you in our lives.”

Athos was ashamed that after everything they had been through--after all his callous behaviour, both intentional and unintended--Aramis still had the power to forgive, forget and move on to better days. How could someone so loving show such wanton disregard when it suited him?

“Was Porthos the one?” he asked in a small voice.

“No,” admitted Aramis. “But I never stop hoping that one day I’ll find them.” He grinned. “I’m on the lookout out for a sexier version of you.”

“Bastard,” said Athos and hugged him hard.

 

\---

 

“I should be angry with you for hurting Aramis,” said Anne as she lifted Louis out of his high chair and set him down in his playpen.

“Are you?” Athos poured two mugs of tea and handed the baby his cup of water. Louis was a happy little soul, much like his father -- occasionally flying off the handle, but mostly content.

“Yes and no,” said Anne. “It’s your fault I’m a rebound fuck.”

“My fault?” Athos raised an eyebrow. “No one drove you back into bed with him.”

“I know,” she replied with a sigh. “But he was unhappy and I love him.”

“He loves you too,” said Athos. “One day it might even be exclusive.”

“Dare I hope?” said Anne with a roll of the eyes and a look of resignation.

“He hopes,” said Athos. “He’s just not sure what it is he’s hoping for. One day it'll hit him.”

“You know you have to talk to him before we go our separate ways.”

“We are talking.” Athos frowned. He and Aramis had patched things up, although the wounds were still there and probably would be for a long time to come. He glanced out of the window at the group of rowdy men who were having a kickabout in the garden. Getting the ball back, when it had flown off the cliff, was a long winded process.

“Proper talk, I mean. The way you used to be with each other.”

“I don't think we’ll ever be that close again,” said Athos. He loved Aramis with all his heart, but there would be no more night time cuddles and quiet sharing of truths. That was for boys. They were grown men now, with all the scars that came from adulthood. There were times when he envied Tommy and d’Artagnan.

“Hearing that makes me sad,” she said. “Anne and I were sure you were in love.”

Theirs was a strange relationship, thought Athos. If they couldn't understand it themselves then what hope did others have?

“We wanted to be, but it never quite worked.” He sat up on the counter. “You can’t force love. It just happens. I fall hard and rarely.” He shrugged sympathetically. “Aramis is the opposite.”

“And Porthos?”

“He’s like me,” said Athos with a smile that came from deep within.

“He _is_ you,” laughed Anne. “He’s for keeps.”

Athos watched as Porthos saved the football from going over the cliff a third time in a row. “He’s a good keeper, I grant you,” he smirked. “I’ll take out the half time drinks tray.”

The evening was a hot one, the night even hotter, and no one attempted to go to bed until long past midnight. The girls were the first to give in, Constance yawning as she made her way inside, followed soon by Anne who kissed Aramis before departing.

“It’s nice to see you like this again,” she said with a gentle smile, ruffling his hair. “It makes me happy. It makes you happy, I think.”

“We are what we are.” Aramis shrugged. “For better or worse.” He was lying on the grass, his head pillowed in Athos' lap, who in turn was propped against Porthos.

“Goodnight,” she said to all three men. 

“I’ll be up in a bit,” said Aramis, rolling onto his side, curled foetal and content.

This situation made Athos happy too, for the moment. The holiday was almost over--there would soon be a parting of the ways--and he wasn't yet prepared for it.

“Do we have to leave?” he murmured.

“Says the man who didn't want to be here in the first place.” Aramis smiled up at him and then yelped as Athos twisted his fingers into dark wavy locks and tugged a little.

“I wanted to be here, but I was afraid.”

“Of us?” 

“I suppose so, in a way.” Athos looked over at Tommy who was being a child and playing slaps with d’Artagnan. “Afraid of the past.”

“At first I thought you were mad at me and that’s why you hooked up with Porthos.” Aramis turned prickly and sad.

“Not so,” came Porthos’ rumble of a voice, half full of sleep. “You know better than that.”

Athos searched for the right words. “I was never angry with you, Aramis. Even if I were, I'd never punish you in that way.”

“You punished me when you ran away. Promise me you won't do it again.”

“I promise.” He could say that now and mean it.

Aramis sat up and gazed out to sea. “Do you remember that summer when we went to Corfu?” he asked. “You were going to be a painter or a photographer. Maybe it was a writer that year.”

“And you fell in love with a kebab maker called Stavros.”

“He was a waiter called Milos,” corrected Aramis.

“And you ditched him for a naturist earth mother.”

“Ahh, Petunia,” sighed Aramis. “Brown all over and crepey with it. She was from Brentford.”

“And then you dumped her for-”

“I know. I know. I get it,” chuckled Aramis. “I won’t make fun of your lack of talent if you shut up about my conquests.” He reached out sideways for two hands to hold. “I’m glad we can all be friends.”

“It feels kind of right,” said Porthos, stretching then shifting around to get comfortable and taking the others with him as he did so.

“You blindsided me,” said Aramis, letting go and patting Athos on the cheek. “I was sure you were falling for Anne.”

“How did you feel about that?” Athos looked curiously down at his best friend. 

“Jealous,” said Aramis. “Scared that you’d be a better boyfriend and father than I could ever hope to be.”

“And how did you feel when it was Porthos?”

“I am here you know,” complained a deep voice, rough with drowsiness.

“Shhh, we’re talking,” said Aramis, petting him quiet. “I was angry. My feathers were ruffled. I’m the cheater not the cheatee.”

“You and I were never in love,” said Porthos. 

“No, we weren’t,” agreed Aramis. “I might be beginning to know what that feels like.”

“It’s nice,” said Athos, full of inner happiness. He and Porthos had done nothing more than kiss, but love was a constant source of energy between them, full of potential and too strong to ignore.

“Nice?” said Porthos in mock indignation. “What the hell is nice?”

Athos grinned at him. “Nice is sitting beside a stranger and eating ice cream. Nice is rubbing dock leaves over nettle stings. Nice is doing the crossword together in the morning. This is nice.”

“Well, if you put it that way,” said Porthos, leaning in for a kiss. “Love is nice.”

Athos nodded in agreement, glad he hadn't ignored its call.

Important words spoken, they lazed contented together, half asleep and happy, and would probably have woken up hours later, chilled to the bone and damp with dew, had it not been for Tommy, who arrived with demands rather than blankets.

“Can we go swimming?” He nudged Athos with a toe, rousing him from his daydream state. “Ath, please. Remember when we used to sneak out and go to the beach at night? I want to do it again.”

“How stoned are you?” asked Athos. This had never been a consideration when they were children.

“Hardly at all, am I, Charlie boy?” 

D'Artagnan shook his head and tugged at various hands until all five men were standing.

“Why not?” said Athos with a grin. Rebuilding their family was something else to look forward to. Although he Tommy were very different characters--chalk and cheese, Mum had always said--they had been friends as much as brothers. Once upon a time Tommy had looked up to him, had thought he could do no wrong until he bricked himself up inside an ivory tower. That tower was blasted to pieces now.

Athos led the way down the cliff path, sure footed even in the near darkness. The beach was still warm, radiating back the ingrained heat of the day and he slipped off his shoes, feeling the sand squirm between his toes. They walked along a little way until the cliffs loomed over them, still mysterious but without any sense of threat now that peace had been found.

“I’ve never been skinny dipping,” said Porthos as he stripped off, leaving his clothes in a pile on the rocks.

He was beautiful, rippled with muscle and inked with words, and Athos loved every inch of him, inside and out.

“Not even in some hotel horizon pool in Dubai?” asked Aramis. “You disappoint, mon ami.”

“Glorified lackey, me,” said Porthos, striding towards the water and then running as he got caught up in the moment.

Shedding clothes like skin Athos chased after him, scared that tide would rip at him and steal him away. He caught up and tackled him into the water, covering him with kisses and laughing as teeth chattered and skin blossomed with goosebumps.

“Enough of that mushy shit,” yelled Tommy, pushing them apart. “Find me some treasure, Athos.”

Athos duck dived down to the bottom, fumbling around for shells. It was ghostly dark under here, echoing with the dull crash of the waves. His ears rang from the pressure, his chest ached and he swam upwards, striking out for the surface. Drowning was the last thing on his mind. It was time to live.

 

\---end


End file.
